


Desert Rock

by Cadilus (Ahsurika)



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drama, Gen, Injury Recovery, Mentor/Protégé, Moral Lessons, Orc Culture, Orcs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahsurika/pseuds/Cadilus
Summary: Lokran, a young and headstrong orc warrior, stalks the Burning Blade and experiences the bloodlust of his race, learning a valuable lesson in his defeat.





	Desert Rock

When Lokran awoke, the moon was high in the sky.

Every muscle in his body ached. Some burned, an echo of the flames that had darted across his skin and eaten at his flesh.

_Tokar…_

A searing pain in his side prevented him from rising. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, but fell back with a hiss. Bandages crinkled all over his body. Beneath them, he knew, were terrible burns, wounds whose scars might show for decades. And not scars to be proud of, either.

_I…I failed._

"Lokran."

_No._

"Look at me, whelp."

With a heave of effort, Lokran shifted his body to face his mentor.

* * *

The cultists of the Burning Blade appeared as bored as Lokran felt. The men seemed half asleep, leaning against a rocky outcropping with their eyes closed. One lazily traced patterns in the air. The woman mumbled to herself as she paced back and forth, an imp skipping dutifully at her feet.

Four enemies, and the woman was obviously a spellcaster, a weakling warlock. The men wore daggers at their sides, but they were not warriors as Lokran was. They were orcs who had forsaken the strength of the Warchief for the empty promises of demon worshippers.

He would crush them in the name of the Horde.

 _Do not attack any acolytes you find_ , Tokar had told him.  _Be patient. Hide. Observe, and when the day is out report back to me._

Lokran grunted. "Observe" was just another word for "spy", and orcs did not resort to  _spying_. A  _true_  warrior would confront them in the field, would prove his strength by defeating them in open combat.

It had been easy to follow Tokar's words at first. The older orc, a heavily scarred veteran of three wars, knew what he was talking about, and the appearance of the cultists so close to Razor Hill was an unexpected (and therefore exciting) development. And one should know something about one's enemy before launching any attack.

Merely gathering information, Lokran had grudgingly admitted, wasn't a  _bad_  thing.

But as the day wore on and nothing happened, Lokran's excitement heated to a fever pitch, a restrained fury that roared through his blood and tensed his muscles. His many lessons and Tokar's words held it back for now, but before long wouldn't be able to contain it.

Soon, he would have to  _fight_.

* * *

His mentor's glare felt like a punch to the gut.

"Tokar—"

A slap silenced him.

 _I'm injured_ , Lokran wanted to say, but no true orc would say that. An orc braved the pain of his wounds where others suffered it, bore his scars with pride where others hid behind them.

_But then, am I a true orc? I fought them, felt the blood rage, attacked them…_

… _and lost_.

"What were you ordered to do?" Tokar asked.

Lokran remained silent. What could he say?

"Do you even remember the gist of them? Do you know  _why_  I gave the orders I did?"

"Cultists…watch…report…" Lokran mumbled.

" _Observe_ ," Tokar snapped. "Observe  _only_. Noticing, yet unnoticed. Fighting without striking a blow.  _Information_ , Lokran. And when the moon rose, report to me. Not an instant before then were you to  _move_."

* * *

Sweat slithered over his rippling muscles and dripped from his furrowed brow, a constant reminder that it had been hours since his last drink. The air shimmered as heat rose in waves off the orange desert rock. The setting sun's rays forced him to squint as he watched his prey.

 _Patience is key_. One of the first lessons taught to every young warrior. In war as well as in other aspects of life. But how was Lokran to have patience with the enemy so close? How was he to reconcile such words with the fireside tales of courage that drew crowds of hundreds?

His limbs trembled. Whether from dehydration, cramped fatigue, or excitement, Lokran couldn't tell.

One of the men yawned loudly. Leaning forward, Lokran strained his ears, hoping to catch a few words, to catch  _something_.

"…be here? There's nothing to do, and I'm starving."

The woman rolled her eyes. "We were told to keep watch, Gotar. You know that, it was  _your_  master who ordered us out here."

Gotar stretched his arms before settling back onto the rock. "At least let me  _hunt_  something. My talents are  _wasted_  here."

Lokran smirked, his heart hammering in his chest.  _You, at least, have the will of a warrior. I will attack you last. Only then can we have a fair fight._

The other man threw his arms up, scowling at Gotar. "Give it a rest, will you?

His blood  _burned_.

An urge, irresistible.

His grip on the axe.

Drops of sweat, trickling down his arm.

And then, as the imp cocked its head, turned toward him –

A target for his bloodlust.

_Now._

* * *

"And what did you do, Lokran?"

A memory of the fight, of the adrenaline rushing through his veins. "I killed my enemies."

"That's not what I remember."

Lokran looked away, hoping the darkness could mask his irritation, knowing nothing could disguise his shame.

Tokar sighed. "I asked you to be a hunter, Lokran. A gatherer. Instead, your arrogance gave me a brawler, arrogant and reckless, and a terrible one at that."

_What?_

"But, Tokar, if you wanted a hunter, why didn't you ask Durok?"

The elder orc's eyebrows disappeared into his mop of white hair.

"He's the best tracker in the valley," Lokran said, grimacing slightly as he shifted his weight. "Or Tek'rin. Laziest troll I ever met, but I've seen him hit a scorpid from forty yards.

"But I…"

* * *

He was an orc, and his enemies would die.

Leaping from behind his rocky cover –  _cowards hide_  – spinning his axe, the sudden rush of air –

" _For the Horde!"_

The imp had time only to screech before the huge axe came down. Too far down: with so little resistance, the swing carried Lokran off balance. He stumbled, kicking the demon's body aside as he fell.

His body trembled with the force of his growl.  _More!_

The woman, the warlock, let out a furious scream, fire erupting from her hands.

_Pumping in his veins, his heart hammering, muscles bulging –_

So close he could feel its fingers tickle his sides, but the flames missed, and he spun to avoid the next burst as his axe sang notes that resonated in his blood –  _the howl of the wolf in the hills, the herald sounding the charge_ – a song that crescendoed quickly to an abrupt climax.

_Two._

Metal skittered across his shoulder, his flesh parting beneath the knife's sharp edge –

A great bellow, like thunder amongst the rocky crags, erupted from deep within him.

His enemy flinched, backing away warily, fear radiating from him, a palpable  _scent_  –

But Lokran followed, his face a rictus of  _rage_ ,  _violence_  born not of hate but of  _purpose_ , of  _need_ , and the other orc threw his dagger, trying to stall Lokran's advance but to no avail, it disappeared from view –

A piercing  _pain_  in his chest, but Lokran ignored it, he was an orc, he was  _unstoppable_ , this was his  _life_ , he was  _born_  to  _conquer_ , and he could see every drop of sweat on the other orc's face, every speck of dust flung from his swinging axe –

Then the orange rock behind as his foe slumped, headless, to the dirt.

_Lok'tar Ogar!_

His chest swelled, the feeling of success, of  _victory_ , he could smell the crackling fire of the hearth -

There was a fourth, the last, the foe he'd saved for this moment, the one with the warrior spirit. Lokran turned –

 _Blistering, scorching heat_  –

Green flames  _seared_  his skin –

Lifting his axe, his vision red with rage, distorted with pain –

 _Burning, fires in his flesh_  –

A scream echoed in his ears, in his  _head_ , a male voice crying out,  _his_  –

He fell to his back, gasping for enough breath, he needed air,  _air_ , so he could  _scream_  –  _burning_!

The fading daylight above him. Orange, red, pink hues. Fire in the sky.

The acrid tang of  _defeat_.

"You're  _mad_ , warrior."  _That voice…familiar…_  "Attacking three of us, alone. And you went for Ruka – no, her  _imp_  first, then Ruka…should've gone for the one with  _power_."

A lucid thought amid the pain, the  _pain_  –

_Gotar is a warlock, too._

"Such a shame, too, you might have been a valuable tool."

Flames flickering above him. Orange, yellow, green, a demonic mockery of the sun.

His eyes fluttered, agony finally winning out over rage, pushing him toward the darkness that awaited.

Shaking his head, Gotar raised his hand –

– and glancing to the side, eyes widening.

Gotar danced out of Lokran's blurred vision, flinging fire from his palms.

_But…_

A great hammer fell through the space the cultist had so recently occupied, thudding into the ground. Lokran's rocky bed trembled as a stocky figure leaped over him.

_Who…_

Creaking in his neck as he struggled to turn his head, gasping –

Gotar rolling beneath another blow, his back now to Lokran, another orc turning, his craggy face and white hair familiar –

_Tokar!_

Gotar flicking a fistful of fire, Tokar dodging, but Lokran could see what the older orc could not, the green flames running up the warlock's forearms –

 _He'll_  –

Terrible wrath, the bloodlust  _paling_  in comparison.

_NO!_

He kicked out, once, twice, gasping in pain, his muscles squealing in protest, burning,  _burning_  –

On the fifth kick, he hit Gotar's ankle.

The cultist stumbled back, looking down, eyes wide and full of first fury, then fear, mouth opening to scream as Tokar's hammer came down.

Blood sprayed Lokran's face, the liquid cool against his parched lips.

His world went dark.

* * *

"I am no  _hunter_ , Tokar. Nature doesn't speak to me. The elements are silent. Should I not be a  _warrior_ , an orc who brings the fight to his enemies, who lives to conquer?"

His mentor slapped him again.

"What are you doing?" Lokran exclaimed, but there was no force behind the words. He had said something wrong, made a mistake…but there was meaning in the mistake, Tokar's hooded gaze said as much. Even as his cheeks burned, he found himself holding his breath. Anticipating.

Tokar scowled in disapproval. "We call those who wield the bow 'hunter', but that is just a title, a description of their duty to the tribe.  _Every_  orc is a hunter, just as every orc is a warrior. Do you know why that is, foolish boy?"

Feeling stupid, Lokran looked at the ground and shook his head.

Tokar clapped a hand on his shoulder and waited until Lokran looked up.

When he spoke, his gruff voice was quiet and earnest. "Because we are all  _seeking_  something, Lokran. You felt it today, understood for the first time. You experienced the bloodlust, but there was something beyond that, too: clarity. We forever strive to gain that clarity in struggle.

"And why do we do that, Lokran?"

And in one clear,  _glorious_  moment, Lokran knew the answer.

The music of battle, vibrant and invigorating, as it played within his blood. His pure vision, the detail of the battleground. Every feeling, the smell of his enemies' fear, the tastes of victory and defeat…

"So that we can feel alive," he whispered.

Tokar nodded. "Even before the demon blood, Lokran, we orcs strove in competitions. We sought to prove that we could not only  _live_  with the elements, but  _work_ with them to conquer the world around us. And we showed that we were  _strong_.

"Not because we could conquer the world – that takes numbers, nothing more – but because we could live within it. Not because we could experience the bloodlust…but because we could see beyond it. That strength, Lokran, is all we have left from our old lives.

"We have few allies and many enemies in a hard world that grows smaller every day. If we are to survive, we must prove that we have the  _right_  to survive. You say the elements are silent; I say you must speak to them first. Every breath we take should tell the world that we are here to stay.

"And so we don't just charge into the fray. We don't hope that, by itself, our  _skill with an_   _axe_ —"

Tokar emphasized the last words, peering intently at Lokran to drive the point home. Lokran winced.

"—will win us the day. We plan. We gather information. We use the elements: the glare of the sun, the terrain, the winds, the weather. They speak, so we listen. We use our experiences, our knowledge, all we have heard of our ancestors. We  _wait_  for the proper moment…so that when the time comes, we strike knowing that the world is on our side.

" _That_  is what it means to be  _strong_."

His mind whirling, Lokran took a shuddering breath of the cool night air. He needed time to think this all through, but the excitement racing through his veins brought a realization all its own.

He understood.

Not a perfect understanding – that would take time, perhaps the rest of his life. But the seeds were there.

He, Lokran, was an orc. And an orc did not strive for conquest, to defeat every threat in glorious battle. An orc strove to prove that he was worthy of living with the land on which he walked.

 _No_ , he thought suddenly.  _Not just one orc._ All _of us._

Tokar smiled and inhaled deeply, nodding to himself, and Lokran could sense the old orc's satisfaction.

"Perhaps you have learned something valuable today, Lokran," he said, his gruff voice gentle. "Even if you are an impatient, dull-brained peon, you experienced the song of battle. You may yet become a strong orc, one worthy of his tribe, of surviving this strange new world."

He stood, the crack of his aging joints a telling sign of how long he must have been squatting while Lokran had been unconscious. With a final nod, he turned to leave.

"Tokar," Lokran said suddenly. The older orc paused, eyeing Lokran questioningly from the corner of his eye. "I thought I could handle the cultists alone, but I failed to defeat them all. I…I was not strong. I was not worthy. Why did you save me?"

Tokar was silent for so long that Lokran began to wonder if he'd forgotten the question. It was many minutes before he finally said, "You should get some rest, Lokran. I will tell you in the morning."

"But…I think I know, Tokar," Lokran said in a hushed tone, fascinated at the sense of it all. It was just so…right. Leaning forward, grunting at the pain of his wounds, he continued. "I was not strong enough alone…but together, we would've been. Together, we  _were_."

The words tumbled out now as Lokran's certainty grew. "I think…what you said about strength…it applies to all orcs, doesn't it? All of us as a people, I mean. We need to prove our strength as a people…that we are orcs, and that we are here.

"And how can we do that alone?"

Tokar was grinning from ear to ear. Embarrassed, Lokran lay back down and turned away.

One word. A single word, floating down from above, yet when it hit Lokran it shot through his being like lightning.

"Exactly."

A whisper of movement, and he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by memories of the Valley of Trials way back in the day, years before Deathwing broke Azeroth. All the times I died trying to solo groups of level 3 cultists…


End file.
